Love Living On
by Ophelia V. Santori
Summary: The Aftermath... the events that take place after Love Never Dies. I think this is going to stay a one-shot, but I could be convinced to add some other vignettes of "life after Christine" in Phantasma, with Erik and Gustave-R&R, ladies and gents.
1. Life May Be Fleeting

**Just a sad little one-shot that again, leaped out. I'm actually probably only going to be writing one-shots for a while. My chapter stories are far more intricate, and thus are on hold at the moment. **

**So, here we are with another Love Never Dies one-shot. The Phantom is Ramin Karimloo, and Christine is Sierra Boggess... naturally. Enjoy.**

He was numb. Empty. But he forced himself to be strong. For his son.

They were two lost figures-one small and pale, one tall and shadowed, with only a stark white mask standing out-walking back to the island where the lights of Phantasma glowed.

Behind them, a small carriage, black flags adorning it, carried the broken Meg Giry, the sorrowful Madame Giry, and all that remained of the Phantom's Angel of Music.

Erik looked down at his son, at the small hand nestled in his own, and felt an enormous rush of protectiveness for the small, broken boy that reminded him so of himself.

"Gustave," he said quietly, and his son looked up at him, mirroring Erik's gaze with eyes similiar to his own.

"Yes... father?"

He jumped a little at the shock of the title, but quickly pushed it down. "Would you like me to carry you?"

Gustave nodded slowly.

Erik lifted Gustave in his arms, holding him close.

Gustave felt so safe there. He leaned his tired head on his father's shoulder, and tried very hard not to cry again.

As Erik walked closer and closer to Phantasma, he became aware that his employees, his "children," so to speak, were gathered around the entrance, eyes worried and horrified.

He came through to door, stepping up on a podium that was there, putting Gustave down on the stage beside him, gripping his hand in his own.

He faced the crowd of freaks, looking at them.

They all saw the strength in him. They loved him, feared him, and respected him. His power had not faded, and his irrepressible, magnetic control over all he surveyed hadn't either. But he was a broken man. This they saw, and it frightened them. He had always seemed invincible to them.

"Tonight," he began, and was proud that his voice projected fine, without even shaking a little. "Tonight a tragedy has befallen us."

He pointed at the carriage, carrying his lost love. "The Soprano of the Century... Mademoiselle Daae... was..."

He couldn't say it. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and opened them again.

"Tonight, Christine Daae was killed on the docks of Phantasma. All that could have been done, has been done. She is gone."

All the freaks were shocked, some of them burst into tears.

They had liked the beautiful Mademoiselle Daae. She had been kind to them, smiling at them without a trace of fright, understanding them even though she was so beautiful herself. Not like her husband, who was obviously disgusted by them. Not all of them had known, but some of them had had an idea of the connection between Christine and Mr. Y. And seeing his eyes, his obvious pain... it hurt them all.

Gustave looked up at his father, and the Phantom looked down at him. Madame Giry and Meg appeared, carrying Christine onto the stage, to the gasps and screams and sobs and wails of the crowd of freaks.

Erik placed his hands on Gustave's shoulders and did not allow him to turn around. He said, quietly, only for Gustave's ears, "Close your eyes, Gustave."

"No," replied the child, "I have to see. I want to see."

An understanding passed between them, and Erik nodded almost imperceptibly.

He turned, lifting Christine easily into his arms. "She died without need," he said, "Without cause or reason. She was so good, so pure, so lovely-an angel."

The freaks nodded, remembering.

"We will never forget her. She will live forever in our hearts, and she will never die that way."

A single tear, noticed only by Gustave, dripped down his father's cheek.

"Not all of you knew... But I loved her. I loved her very much. We knew each other, you see. I am sorry if I did not tell you. But I did. I loved her with all of my heart." he told them, and they cried for him.

Madame Giry and Meg began to take Christine back to the carriage. He watched them go, and his heart went with them.

"_Love Never Dies_..."

He began, shaking at first, but then strengthening.

_"Love never falters..._

_Once it has spoken_

_Love is yours._"

Gustave held his hand, and the child's pure soprano voice joined the flawless baritone that had been thought the voice of an Angel, or that of a ghost.

"_Love never fades_

_Love never alter_s..."

And all the freaks began to join, their voices swelling and singing for the lost Christine Daae.

"_Hearts may get broken_

_Love endures._

_Love never dies_

_Love will continue_

_Love keeps on beating,_

_When you're gone_..."

And they all stopped, suddenly, and Gustave's angelic voice climbed, ringing out. And for a moment it seemed he did not sing alone, but that his voice had been joined by that of a woman, whose voice had inspired a lonely ghost once, and had ensnared his heart...

"_Life may be fleeting_..."

And all sang together once more.

"_Love lives on_."

And Gustave and his father, the great Mr. Y, stepped off the stage, as behind them, the freaks of Phantasma covered their City of Wonders in black, and began to mourn in all their richly flavored customs, all the cultures living there bringing a rush of pure sorrow, all for the soul of Christine Daae.

* * *

Erik tucked Gustave in, holding his hand gently.

"Father," said Gustave, "I'm sorry."

"For what, Gustave?" said Erik, confused.

"If I hadn't... been so foolish.. this would never have happened. I knew not to go off, Mother told me, but I didn't listen and now-"

Erik was furious, and Gustave stopped. "You listen to me, Gustave. Your mother's death was not your fault, do you understand me? You could not have done anything. You had nothing to do with it, understand that. And she would not want you thinking that for a moment, even if it was true-which it is not. And neither do I," his eyes softened, "You cannot blame yourself. I forbid it."

Gustave smiled slightly. "Alright."

Erik began to leave, but Gustave's small hand clutched his tightly. "Don't go!" he said, panicked. "Don't leave!"

Erik sat down on a chair next to Gustave's bed, smoothing his child's hair back from his forehead hesitantly, eyes uncertain. "I'm not going anywhere."

And, true to his word, Erik sat by his son's bedside. His hesitance and uncertainty were eventually overruled by the powerful need he felt to protect his son, to comfort him. He sang him lullabies, something he had not done since Christine had been a young child, back at the Opera House, and when he fell asleep, he sat and watched his son's peaceful face for a few minutes before quietly slipping out, effortlessly silent.

Once he had closed his son's door, he turned and observed his lair. True, in Phantasma it was a house and not a lair hewn into the rock of an underground catacomb, but the feeling was the same. He strode purposefully to the room that he had built, so very long ago, dreaming of a normal life. It was more conventional than the rest of the house, somewhere he had envisioned Christine being comfortable in. He could see her even now... by the fire, reading a book. Lounging on the chaise, soaking in the sunlight streaming through the window... at the piano, plucking out the few simple tunes he had taught her, and intense expression of focus on her face...

He fell to his knees and screamed in agony and despair.

Three hours later, he left the room and quietly closed the door.

It was in shambles, the bookcase over turned, pages ripped out of books and strewn across the floor. It looked as if a wild animal had scratched the walls, the wallpaper shredded and torn and slashed by finger marks. Every glass or china thing in the room lay in pieces on the floor, even the window having some cracks in it. The frames of pictures had been thrown onto the ground, the chairs overturned... it looked as if a wild animal had laid waste to the room.

Erik sat in the kitchen, picking the broken glass stoically out of his knuckles and palms. He showed no pain as each blood-stained sliver landed in the bowl with a gentle "plink".

When he was finished, he did not care to bind his wounds. He let them bleed.

Sleep was out of the question.

He chose instead to wander, flexing his hands and hoping the small stabs of pain would keep his mind occupied, if only a little.

He found himself standing on the balcony of Christine's suite, and for a moment, it seemed that the doors would open and she would be there, packing her things, ready to move into his house with him. He could see it so clearly...

_"Erik!" she would say, her eyes widening in surprise and delight, rushing towards him and wrapping her arms around him. "I wasn't expecting you until later, I'm not finished packing..." _

_He would press a kiss to her forehead and murmur, "I'm an impatient man, love."_

_"So I've found." and she would kiss him gently, their kisses deepening and growing with each passing moment._

_"I love you, Erik," she'd murmur, "I love you."_

He pushed the fantasy back with a snarl.

He strode into the empty, dark room. He saw all her things there, and his hands began to shake. He wanted her back.

He began going through her things, hoping some small piece of Christine would ease the agony in his heart.

Her clothing smelled of her, and her cards and letters that she carried with her were worn, as if she had read them over and over.

He went through them, and suddenly stopped, his heart momentarily ceasing it's damnable beat.

_To Erik_

It was that simple. The envelope was sealed with red wax, but had obviously been opened many times. Simply not by him.

He remembered, for a moment, a conversation he'd had once, with a very young, miserable girl who thought him an Angel:

_She was crying, and he could not bear it when she cried. "My darling Christine..." he said, his voice smooth and warm, "Do not cry, my child."_

_She looked up, hearing the disembodied voice, and hugged her arms around her huddled form even tighter. "He's gone, Angel... He's gone. And I can never talk to him again..."_

_Erik knew she meant her father. He didn't know what to say. "My dear, that's not true. You will meet him again, one day, in Heaven."_

_It felt so wrong, telling her that. He gritted his teeth, going against what he believed to comfort her felt so wrong._

_"There's so much I wanted to tell him... I never even got to say goodbye." she whimpered softly, and it broke his heart._

_"Write a letter," he said, and cursed his foolishness as she looked up, tear-filled eyes wide and expectant._

Well, no going back now_, he thought grimly. "Write a letter," he repeated, "And say in it everything you need to say. It will make you feel better. Know that somewhere, even if he cannot hear you, he can read it."_

_She nodded slowly, and gave him a tremulous smile that warmed his heart. "Yes, Angel," she said, "I will do that."_

He stared at the envelope, with his name on it. With shaking fingers, he broke the seal, pulling the pages of flowing script, of Christine's handwriting, out. The pages were tear-stained, the ink running in some places, but he could read it. He took a deep breath and plunged into the letter.

_To Erik:_

_Do you remember the times when we laughed together? I thought you were not human, then. But it felt as if you were, when we laughed together. I could pretend._

_I have spent so much time pretending. It is all I have ever done, my whole life. I pretended that you were human, when I thought you were an angel. When I was older, and I began to lose my faith in angels or magic, I refused to let myself think of any alternatives—of what you might be, what you really were—even though I knew, deep down, that you were no Angel, but rather a man. An extraordinarily gifted and troubled and beautiful man._

_But I pretended, because if you were an Angel, it meant my father was there, in some small way. And it made things so much simpler between us._

_I didn't have to act on those strange longings I felt when I heard your voice… longings I had never felt for anything else, because you weren't human, and thus that love was forced to remain safe and platonic. I was so weak, then._

_And then you came to me, as I had asked. And I felt that love and that longing transform into something darker. But I didn't care. You were so close to me then, so beautiful. And I wanted you. I wanted you as you wanted me, and again I pretended. I pretended you didn't have that mask, that there were no secrets between us, that you had no real reason for wearing the uncomfortable, bulky thing. I didn't have to try to hard, not when your touch was making me burn, when your hands were on me and your lips were so close to mine._

_And then I betrayed you with my curiosity, and again I pretended. I pretended I had never fallen for you, had never wanted you, even as my heart broke for you. I pretended it was only pity, only compassion for a man as broken and tortured as you._

_And then you killed. And I was so afraid. I had always been afraid of you, of those feelings you made in me, of the power you had over me, of your anger, even of your face—I was shallow, then. But when you killed, I had to pretend I feared you, too. I had to pretend, even to myself, that I feared the man I loved. Because the truth—that I was deeply, passionately, and achingly in love with a deformed murderer, the Opera Ghost himself—was too much for my silly innocence to bear._

_And so I pretended, and then safe, sweet Raoul came, and he made it easier for me to pretend. I could even pretend that the childlike, innocent love of a friend I felt for him could be something more. And I girlishly giggled when he kissed me, because isn't that what girls should do when they have their first kiss? But I felt nothing like I should have. Like I felt when I kissed you, my love. But wait. I'm getting ahead of myself. Yes, I pretended. I even pretended when Don Juan Triumphant came that you wouldn't come, that you were far too clever to be near that place that night._

_I was so foolish, so unforgivably foolish. I knew that you loved me, I was all too aware of that. I knew what you risked to be near me before._

_But on that stage, with your music swelling around me and enveloping me with its notes that made me burn and desire as only you and your music could… It was so easy to pretend._

_I pretended that it was you, did you know that? When we were singing that song together—I, Aminta, you, Don Juan—I pretended that you were there. With your music around me, I fell into it. I wanted it so._

_When I heard your voice, I knew it was you. How could I not? You had sung to me every night for ten years. But I pretended again, my Angel. Now you are beginning to see how adept at that I am. I pretended that it couldn't be you. Piangi had been replaced, by some no one with a decent voice. Because the man singing to me with your voice could not be you. You would never do something so foolish as to come onto a stage when you were fully aware of a plot to kill you that night._

_But I forgot how foolish love makes us, how desperate. I forget, too, my Angel, did I mention that? I am also skilled at that, I see now. You have always professed me to be flawless, perfect, an angelic being. But I am deeply flawed. Perhaps you see that now._

_I forgot that I was not supposed to want you. I forgot it was supposed to be Piangi and not you. I was so wrapped up in my lies to myself and what I wanted to believe that it only mattered that your music was there, your music that seduced me and made me burn. Your voice stirred flames in me. Your touch made me crave and yearn something I did not yet know. And it didn't matter that I was only supposed to be pretending, aided of course by your music, that it was you beside me, holding me, singing to me, touching me._

_The truth was suddenly so beautiful, and I needed it. Hungered for it. So it was you beside me, and I could feel passion rising and making us whole. A few times during that performance, I remembered. When you touched me and it was my turn to sing, I remembered. And I knew that Piangi had never caused such stirrings in me, not in the countless times we had run over the choreography._

_But I am so good at pretending, and at forgetting. And then it was you again, and I thought I was only imagining it. Imagining it because it was only you there in the music, that it couldn't possibly be you there in the flesh._

_And then I felt your mask. And I realized it should only be there in my imagination, only it wasn't. It was there, real as the man I was touching._

_And I was so afraid then. Afraid of you, afraid of the reality I suddenly remembered. That gendarmes surrounded us, that blood covered your hands that brought me such dizzying pleasure, that I was supposed to be in love with Raoul and pretending for the sake of right and wrong, not for my own sake. And I was afraid of your anger. Of what you could do to me._

_And then I felt that love again, when you sang to me. It was so powerful, I could hardly even breathe, remember how I was supposed to feel or what I was supposed to think. There was only you and me, and no need to pretend anymore._

_But I—I panicked. This love, it was suffocating me. It never occurred to my innocent, girlish heart to let it. I had to stop it. And the only thing I could think of that would make it stop was the fear of you. I thought perhaps the fear of your face would make the confusion go away._

_So I betrayed you, and exposed your distortion to an audience full of people, to the gendarmes, to the entire Opera House._

_And I will never forgive myself for that, not if I live a thousand years._

_But I found suddenly that I feared your anger far more than your face. I feared what you would do to me, to all the people I knew and loved, and not your face._

_And I loved you despite all of it. And that added something more for me to be afraid of, this power you had over me that I didn't understand._

_But in your lair, that night after Don Juan Triumphant… It was impossible to pretend any longer. When you lost every semblance of control, when you became what the world had made you, when your torment and your desperation and you darkness exploded in that one horrible moment—I couldn't pretend anymore. And I saw you. I understood, even as you tried to hurt me and my poor, dear friend, and forced us into this mad choice… I loved you._

_I chose you, and I was finished pretending at last. I loved you so much, when I kissed you. The world shifted, and nothing was the same. It was like nothing I'd ever felt before. I wanted you, I needed you, and you were all that mattered. All that existed was the two of us, in that moment._

_But you sent me away, and I had to pretend. I could never refuse anything you told me, and you made me remember the "right" and "wrong" I had so clearly defined in my head—things I now know to be nonsense. You made me pretend again. I don't blame you. I understand now why you did what you did. But I was so heartbroken and I couldn't understand why._

_I thought I loved Raoul, I thought I should be happy that you had let me go. I couldn't understand why I wanted you so badly, why I felt this pain as I left you._

_So I came back. And I let go, as I always should have. And again, I felt what I have only ever felt with you, the love that we share. When you made love to me, I never wanted it to end. I never wanted it to stop. I could have loved you forever._

_And then you were gone. And I had no choice but to pretend again._

_I do not know now if you are alive or dead. But I am so tired of pretending, and, if only for you, I've decided to stop. I know you will never read this. And each day I grow more and more certain that you are gone, that I will never see you again._

_I do not know how I would feel if I saw you again. Anger, probably. Fear. Shock. Pain. But I will never hate you. I've forgiven you, deep down, even if the scars are still there on the surface._

_I am so tired of pretending. I've pretended for Raoul. I've pretended for myself. I've even pretended for my son, Gustave. Our son._

_He is yours. Of this there is no doubt. I've had to hide it for so long, from everyone, even him. But each day, I see more and more of you in him. And I can't help but love him all the more for it. Perhaps it is selfish of me to find the parts of you that I see in him and obsess over them, all while Raoul is there… but I cannot help it._

_The talent he has, the music he writes, his intelligence, his love for things that are dark and bizarre, his childish genius, his artistic skill, his passion… and it is not only these things._

_It is the little things… his eyes, the way they change when he is angry, the way he caresses his music as he writes it, the way he refuses to sleep when he needs to finish his work, the way he locks himself in his room for hours when he needs to think hard about something, the little crease that appears on his forehead when he's frustrated… it's all so wrenchingly familiar, and it makes me miss you all the more._

_I am sorry. I am so sorry, for everything._

_I love you. I loved you from the first moment I heard your voice as a frightened little girl. I fell in love with you when you first revealed yourself to me. And I will always love you—until the end of time._

_If you ever read this, please promise me something. Promise me that you will learn to forgive. Forgive me for all I have done. But more importantly, forgive yourself. You are so beautiful, my love, no matter what the world says. And you have so much to give. There will never be anyone else quite like you, and you have my heart from here to eternity. Forgive yourself, please._

_I should have chosen you. I should never have made all those mistakes that have kept us apart. I should have told you how much I loved you when I had the chance._

_Goodbye, my Phantom, my Angel, my Erik._

_All my love,_

_Christine_

__There was a strange sound in the room. Dimly, he began to realize that it was him-the dry, wracking sound was him. He was crying, and his own tears joined her own tear-stains on the page. He ran his shaking fingers over the words..._ All my love_, and her name.

_I love you_, he read over and over again. He folded the letter, tucking it in his vest pocket, close to his heart.

He broke down, then, where no one could hear him. The guests had all left their hotel rooms long ago... the season was over, the doors of Phantasma were shut. He sobbed and screamed and called her name. He loved her so much and she was gone. She was never coming back. He would never hold her, never touch her, never see her again.

He would never see her smile at him, her eyes sparkle blue with mischief, her lips curling warmly; never see her eyes, filled with desire, smoldering at him; or the blatant love in her gaze and her voice as she held him, held Gustave.

She was gone.

_No._

He forced himself to stand, swaying a little as if drunk.

She was not gone. She was still there, in his heart. He had written for her and her alone. As long as she was alive in his music, alive in his mind and heart, she could not truly die.

As long as he loved her, she would always be there.

_So be it_, he thought, and strode out of the hotel room, shimmying easily down the side of the building, with an agility that had not lessened with age.

As he walked through his kingdom, he almost felt her beside him, her pale hand touching his shoulder, her curls brushing his face.

I'm here, she seemed to whisper, I'm here, my love.

And she wasn't and yet was.

And, with his love by his side and his son asleep in the building behind him, he turned and faced the rising sun, ready to face life without his reason for living.

He was ready. He was waiting.

***sniffle* Alright. I had to. It was sad, and it was in my head, and I had to share my sorrows with the world... I feel like it was a bit cheesy. Do forgive me if it was. I wrote it very quickly, again.**

**Enjoy?**

**Not enjoy?**

**REVIEW. Tell me what you think.**


	2. There Will Never Be A Day

THERE WILL NEVER BE A DAY WHEN I WON'T THINK OF YOU

The rain was heavy over Phantasma the day of Christine Daae's funeral.

The Vicomte had insisted on eventually burying Christine in Paris.

And Erik couldn't find it in his heart to disagree with him. Christine would have liked being buried beside her father.

But being the man that he was, he could still be angry at this man, with whom he had made a stable—if grudging—peace in the aftermath of his beloved's death. He was angry that Christine had to be buried so far away, that she would not be close to him, even gone as she was. But what made him angriest of all was that his son would not be able to visit his own mother's grave site if he ever wished to do so.

And neither could he visit his Christine's final resting place without sailing across the Atlantic Ocean.

So, the stubborn genius and billionaire built a mausoleum, grander even than the one Christine's father had inexplicably been laid to rest in—a penniless violinist in such a magnificent tomb, surely he must have made SOME patron feel guilty about not helping the struggling musician's illness while he was still alive—and made it a testament to her, in all the ways he could think of.

The finished product was clean and white, with elegant designs and clear lines and small engravings etched painstakingly into the stone. It was simple, pure in its beauty, with small but exotic flourishes here and there. It was what he knew she would have wanted.

Of all the open-mouthed spectators who eyed the mausoleum that day, none touched him so much as the young boy who now stood by his side, holding his hand.

Erik could see himself in Gustave's eyes, could see Christine's facial expressions in his features. He watched as Gustave placed a small hand on the mausoleum, stared up at it, leaned his forehead to it and whispered a few words, then pressed a kiss to the smooth marble, his eyes still childishly wide as he stepped away, awed by the beauty of what his father had created.

He stood at the front of a large crowd of his bizarre workers, all dressed in black, their expressions mournful for this Angel who had come into their midst, brightening still more the stages of Phantasma with her smiles and her heart and her kindness and beauty. Even to those who had never met her, she had been a symbol of the goodness that still remained in the world outside the safety and magic of the City of Wonders.

Beside him was little Gustave, dressed all in black, holding tightly to Erik's hand. He was looking forward very intently, at the coffin of ebony that held his mother's body inside. Tears were pouring down his cheeks, but he made not a sound.

Erik had not allowed Meg back into Phantasma after she had left. He had given Madame Giry money to take Meg to a hospital, an asylum, to get help.

He knew he should pity poor, tormented Meg. Meg, who had been so sweet and innocent before he had brought her and her mother across the sea. Meg, who had took it upon herself to give and give and had received nothing in return. Meg, who had tried to save a man who had not needed saving and ended up destroying herself in the process. And he did.

But he found he couldn't bear to even look upon her anymore.

Madame Giry was standing alone, slightly separated from the rest of the employees. She looked horribly sad, and it was disturbing as always for him to see her cry.

She had always been so strong. There was something so strange about her tears.

The priest, dressed in white, was the only man who was dry, standing under an alcove set up just for him. He looked appropriately somber, and as he finished the prayer for her soul, Gustave let out a small whimper, trying desperately to stifle his sobs.

Erik knelt, handing Gustave a white handkerchief and opening his arms, hesitant.

Gustave threw himself into the Phantom's embrace, beginning to sob into his dark clothing.

Finally, as the priest called for the Requiem, Gustave lifted his head, only to sing with his clear voice at the parts the priest called for.

The Phantom stood, still holding Gustave, and added his own voice to the crowd.

Gustave was not a little boy anymore. He was ten years old. But Erik found that he did not feel heavy. Granted, Erik was a good deal stronger than most men were. But Gustave felt small in his arms, small and fragile.

Gustave had not allowed his father to hold him in a very long time. He was not a little child any longer, he had always thought to himself, and he must act accordingly. His mother was different. Mothers were allowed to hold and pet their children, even when the child was a full-grown adult. He never let anyone see his mother hold him, of course, but she and him were comrades in arms, and had always kept the secret in their alliance in the de Chagny household.

But Erik was different.

Gustave knew that Erik was not used to being close to people. He could see it. He knew that Erik would not hold him often—only if he really needed it. And he didn't mind, really. Because Erik was his father, his real father, and he had never felt safer anywhere else.

Gustave sang the Reqiuem with his Father, and the full chorus of Phantasma.

He thought perhaps his mother was somewhere, listening. He wanted to make her proud. He wanted her to be happy.

She hadn't been happy for a very long time, no matter how she tried to hide it.

And, in his sheltered life, despite his mother's radiant smiles and acting as an ever-shining light to all around her, she had been the saddest person he had ever known.

But when he met Erik, he realized that he didn't understand sadness, and had never known anything the like of what he saw in Erik's eyes when he looked at his mother, or the pain that he saw at times… It was difficult for a child's mind, even with all his intelligence, to comprehend.

And he hoped he would make Erik proud, would make him happy.


	3. Angel of Music

**AUTHOR'S NOTE! I just wanted to thank all of my readers for bothering to check out this story, and all of my reviewers for giving me reviews-writers feed off of those, after all-and I'm so very glad you are all enjoying the story. It's something that I can do quickly, so please notify me if there are any typos or inconsistencies and I'll be sure to fix them.**

**Happy reading!**

ANGEL OF MUSIC

Erik was very proud of his son.

He knew he wasn't the easiest man to have as a father. And yet, he and Gustave were so alike in so many ways that he knew Gustave understood. They shared a certain darkness that bound them together.

So, through Erik's temper and Gustave's childish naiveté and their loneliness, they still managed. And slowly but surely, time began to cover the wounds that Christine's death had created on both of them.

Erik knew the saying, "Time heals all wounds" was nonsense. Time did not heal wounds. It covered them up, made them easier to bear, to deal with. And you had to learn to move on, to survive. But the wounds always remained, festering and bleeding in the dark, hurting in the night when there was nothing else to focus on.

So Erik did his best to ensure Gustave would not have to feel that pain. He filled his every waking moment as best he could, with concertos and visits to the Metropolitan Opera—he had been hesitant about it at first, worried it might trigger painful memories for the both of them, but through their shared love of music and theater, it proved an enjoyable experience despite the shadows lurking beneath their happiness—with sojourns through the streets of Manhattan (that often set his teeth on edge) and little mechanical toys from FAO Swartz that the two would tinker with, late at night, for Gustave to learn to "improve" the toys so they played songs, appeared more realistic—it was Gustave's dearest wish to create automatons as realistic and strange as his father's one day.

But above all, Erik filled Gustave's time with music lessons.

The music that had bound Erik and Christine so closely together, soul to soul, had been passed on to their son. And the two would compose together, Erik teaching a fast-learning Gustave to read and write music; and Erik began to teach Gustave to play all of the instruments he had in his extensive collection, and the boy mastered them at a rate that made Erik's heart swell with pride.

Currently, he was teaching his son to play the violin, and Gustave had not missed the significance of this choice.

He was standing among the workers of Phantasma, entertaining them, playing Mozart and Beethoven to all the ones who gathered to listen.

There were whispers, of course, among the freaks, that Erik knew of but did nothing to discourage.

They spoke of the young boy's talent, his passion, the similarities between him and the Master… the expressions they wore, the features of their faces, the looks in their eyes as they played…

Erik didn't mind. He neither confirmed nor denied the harmless rumors, keeping himself shrouded in mystery, as always. It suited him.

The bizarre workers, with all their malformed bodies and sequined, feathered, colorful costumes gathered in a small throng around Gustave, listening to the child play, enthralled.

When Gustave finished the piece with a flourish, the small crowd erupted into applause, and Gustave smiled brightly at them. He bowed, placing the violin carefully back in its case.

Erik watched from the shadows, concealed easily in dark crevices he had built, hidden as he always was when he so desired.

"That was wonderful, Little Master," said one of the older women, a Gypsy fortune-teller who called herself Madame Zadanya, who spoke with a heavy accent. "You should play sometime at the concert hall."

"Thank you, Madame," said Gustave quietly, "Perhaps I will someday. But I like playing for all of you."

"Mr. Gustave!" said Mattheau, one of the Children… Not really children at all, but a one of a group of malformed persons, cruelly called "pinheads" by the outer world, with mental inhibitions and disabilities. When Erik had found them, they were abused horribly by their so-called masters, who left them open to mockery—which, due to their mental disabilities, they remained blissfully unaware of—and physical abuse, which they did not seem to remember now. Or if they did, it never crossed their minds. This one was Mattheau, a particularly kind-hearted soul who like to plunk out simple tunes on the piano, ones Erik had painstakingly and patiently taught him.

Gustave smiled. "Yes, Mattheau?"

Mattheau seemed to think very hard for a moment. Then he said out loud, "Is Mr. Y your Papa?"

Gustave looked uncertain, though not upset, for a moment. "Why do you ask, Mattheau?"

Mattheau shrugged. "He doesn't let anyone else live with him."

Gustave thought a moment. "Let me get back to you tomorrow, Mattheau."

Mattheau nodded. "Okay."

Gustave looked around at all the other freaks.

"Play something else for us!" said Ivy, a young dancer and contortionist with a sparkling dress, feathers in her hair, and bright red rouge painting her lips. "Something lively!"

"Alright, one more," said Gustave cheerfully, "But then I need to go home."

All the freaks groaned but acquiesced, awaiting Gustave's song.

He began to play an Irish jig that Erik had grit his teeth to teach him, but Gustave had insisted, saying that the music was "fun" and "boisterous".

And though he would never admit it, Erik could see now what Gustave had meant, as all the workers threw up their hands and clapped and laughed and began to dance together. They threw themselves whole-heartedly into enjoyment, and Erik knew what Gustave had meant.

When Gustave had finished, Miss Fleck offered to escort him home. Hand in hand, the child and the petite, yet proportionate woman in sequined black escorted him back to the Aerie, as they discussed the stories of Poe, quoting "The Raven" back and forth to each other.

Erik murmured the lines that they hesitated at under his breath, quoting the poem flawlessly from memory—it was one of his favorites.

When they reached their destination, Fleck curtseyed with a flourish and Gustave politely kissed her hand, grinning as she disappeared into the darkness. He then turned, to knock at the door.

"Evening, Gustave," said Erik, appearing suddenly behind him.

To Gustave, it seemed as though his father had magically materialized out of the darkness, and his face lit up with excitement as he turned and saw the masked man.

"Papa!" he said, barreling towards Erik and throwing his arms around him.

Erik tensed at first, but Gustave thought nothing of it. It was just something his father did, and meant no harm by. Gustave had thought about it, and decided that perhaps his father was just not used to being hugged.

Erik quickly relaxed and put his arms around his son, stroking the soft, dark hair on his head. "How was your day today, Gustave?"

"Good, father. We learned Latin in school today."

"Did you now?"

"Yes, and we learned about the emperors. I told everyone about Nero and Caligula, and Marcus Aurelius, but the teacher only talked about Julius Caesar," said Gustave.

Erik chuckled, drawing back from the hug but keeping his arm around Gustave's shoulders. "And what did your teacher have to say about that?"

"He didn't mind. The other boys thought that it was marvelous," said Gustave.

Erik triggered the concealed mechanism that opened the ornate doors to his home, and as he and Gustave entered, he asked, "So… you are making—friends, then?"

"Yes," said Gustave happily, as the doors closed behind them, and he strode over to the wall to flip the switch that ignited all the lights in Erik's home.

Erik tried to hide his discomfort. "Would you… perhaps… Like to spend time with them?"

Gustave turned to look at his father, and saw the discomfort, the uncertainty, no matter how he tried to hide it. "Well… Maybe. But not now."

"You can if you want, you know, Gustave. Don't let me stop you. We'll… we'll make it work. I can arrange it if it's what you want."

Gustave shook his head. "Maybe sometime soon. But I'm alright for now, Papa."

Erik nodded. "Alright. Just tell me when you're ready. I do not want all your time to be spent in my company alone." He said, the resigned grimace he wore concealing far more worry and bitterness than he let on.

Gustave came to take his father's hand. "Don't worry, Father. I like spending time with you."

Erik smiled. "Come. Let's get you some dinner."

* * *

"Gustave, it's late."

"But Father, there's no school tomorrow!"

Erik sighed, looking at the boy at his side. He reached for Gustave's compositions, blowing on them so the ink would dry. "Another hour, then," he said.

"Father…"

"You are ten years old. It is not healthy for you to be up so late. One hour more, and then you are going to bed, Gustave."

Gustave knew better than to argue. "Alright," he groaned.

Erik got up, going to the other side of the library to a large shelf full of leather-bound, embossed and gilded books.

"What shall we read tonight, Gustave?" said Erik.

Gustave scurried to his side. "Let's finish Dracula," he said.

Erik raised an eyebrow at him. "A horror story so late at night?"

Gustave shrugged. "I like it. I want to know what happens to Mina and the Count and Lucy and... all of them."

Erik nodded. "Fair enough. It is a good story, even if Stoker does have some rather noticeable inconsistencies and flaws in writing… And I must admit, the characters are rather enthralling."

Gustave grinned as Erik took the book to the couch, nestling himself at Erik's side and lying on his shoulder. Again, Erik tensed, not used to contact, but he forced himself to relax quickly.

He opened the book and began to read, his voice hypnotic and low.

His voice painted pictures for Gustave, of a dark Count, laughing with a blood-soaked smile; of a strong woman with brown hair and determined features in Madame Mina; of a helpless victim, blond hair strewn across the pillow in Lucy Westenra…

His voice was sweet and lulling, creating an entire world just for Gustave, the story unfolding right before his eyes.

When Erik decided it was enough, he marked the page and ignored Gustave's noise of protest.

"We'll finish the rest another time, Gustave."

Gustave sighed. "I'm not tired."

Erik brought the arm he had around Gustave up, to stroke his hair. "Yes, you are."

Gustave mumbled, hiding his face in Erik's shoulder.

Erik smiled. He began to hum a song quietly.

Gustave smiled a small, half-asleep smile. He loved it when Erik sang to him.

Erik again wove a story for Gustave with his voice, one of peace and love and music that slowly lulled him to sleep.

When Gustave's breathing was slow and steady, Erik fluidly picked Gustave up, careful not to jostle him too much. He carried him effortlessly up the stairs to his room, a large, high-ceilinged alcove above the library. He laid Gustave on the bed, tucking the covers around him, then dropping a kiss to his forehead.

He stared at his son for a very long while, his peaceful expression.

"You look so like your mother." He said, melting into the shadows and going down the hall to his room.

He prepared himself to sleep, but did not lie down in the made bed he rarely used anyways. For the first time in over a decade, he found a mirror and looked at his reflection.

He saw the eyes that had been passed on to Gustave, he saw the strange, pensieve expression that Gustave sometimes wore.

He imagined a breath of wind, a whisper in his ear as a white, smooth hand smoothed the concerned wrinkles from his forehead.

"You see, my love?" she said. "You are so alike, the both of you."

He felt cool lips press against his temple, and he closed his eyes in the darkness, pretending once again.

"_Christine_…"


	4. Try to Forgive

TRY TO FORGIVE

"Absolutely not," said her employer, his eyes dangerously cold, his voice flat and toneless.

Teresa tried to stare him down, as a stronger woman would have, and found it impossible.

She didn't know why it was. Back in the South, she had always been able to stare down all the awful rich white men who would come to use her mother's services, to abuse her as they would never abuse a white woman. She remembered the day one of the johns had turned on her, as well as her mother. She had stared him down through it all. Even when he got so furious with her for fighting back.

Even when he cut up her face, when he broke her leg so it healed crooked, left scars all over her body and made her a freak.

But Mr. Y was different. She respected him, looked up to him. It was not something that was conducive to even mild defiance. "Mr. Y… I know that… This will be difficult. But. She was quite insistent."

The creator of Phantasma made a sudden, violent movement, pounding his fist against the desk.

Teresa flinched, repressing a whimper. The Maestro's face softened. "I'm sorry, Teresa. It was not my intention to frighten you. Nor to bring up bad memories."

"I know," said the girl, fighting back the urge to run her hand over the scars that marred her face.

"But you see, Teresa. I cared very much about Miss Daae. And due the actions of these two women, she is now dead. I recognize that it is not their fault, and that they could not help it, and that I should not blame them. But it would not be wise to have them in such close proximity to me. They should know that. And since they do not, I'm afraid they shall have to learn to accept rejection… And also know that rejection is a far better alternative to what could be dealt upon them."

His voice was low and cold and dangerous, and she was scared. Even though his cold hatred and anger was not directed at her, she feared this man. As much as she knew he would never harm her, he commanded a certain fear as well as respect and awe from his employers, and it was not something any one of them was immune to.

Teresa swallowed. "I—I know, sir. It's only…" she was trembling to hard to finish her sentence.

Mr. Y sighed. "Sit down, girl, no one is going to harm you."

She did so, and took a deep, shaky breath.

"The other freaks… We knew them, too." She said hurriedly, seeing his eyes harden at the use of the word 'freak'. "And we… we don't mind if they come back. If they were hidden, isolated… Surely, it wouldn't be…"

"Teresa, why you?"

Teresa stopped short, her train of thought abruptly cut off. "Mr. Y?"

"Why is it you here, asking me to allow the Giry women back onto my property? You knew them no better than anyone else," he said, "So why is it you who comes and asks to speak with me?"

Teresa replied without thinking, "I was chosen."

She clapped her hand over her mouth, eyes wide. "I—I didn't mean! We—we just…"

The Maestro's visible eyebrow arched. "Do elaborate, please, Teresa."

Teresa sighed. "It's not… We just…"

Mr. Y was waiting. She steeled herself and launched forth.

"Well, you see Mr. Y… There are lots of women here who've been… Well, _abused_, you know?"

"I'm aware."

"Yes, but I mean… They've been…"

In her discomfort and growing angst, her accent was getting stronger. She continued, blushing hard. "They've been—you know—_used_ by men, Master Y. And they know what it is to feel that. And there are… Pardon sir, but some of the girls, they still…"

"I'm aware." He said, softly.

"They don't mean no harm by it, sir, oh no. It's just… They ain't always got a choice. Some of them gots families and children back at home, and those children got to be fed, and they wants to make ends meet and some of them gots contracts they ain't allowed to break, and…"

"I'm working on improving that situation, Teresa. I believe that count of women under my employ who—shall we say—solicit that specific variety of services is significantly lower than it was when we began."

She nodded enthusiastically, almost beaming now. "Oh yes, sir, yes! We know! And the girls, they's ever so grateful, and soon, no one will have to anymore, and it'll be just fine…"

He smiled, and she shook herself, fixing her accent back to the more formal way she'd been graciously educated into under Phantasma's care. "I'm sorry."

"It's quite alright."

"Just… What we mean is…"

He was waiting, expectant and patient, a still statue, unblinking and unmoving in the shadows of the dim room.

She bit her lip. "It's Miss Giry, sir. We… we feel sorry for her. We know she did an awful thing that day, and we don't like that at all, sir. But… But she's suffered enough. And even if some of us who knew Madamoiselle Daae hate her for what she did, we're sure she's harmless now. And she should be forgiven, sir. And her mother… It's terrible for a mother to see their daughter go down that path, sir. Please. We just… They're part of us, see. We can't just cast them out into the cold."

Erik knew it would be an awful time to cynically comment on how it was hardly cold, and that they were perfectly capable of finding their own way along. But then he thought.

_Teresa is right. Damn it all, but she is right_, he thought.

What would they do, know that they had no home? Would Madame find a job? Would she work in one of the filthy factories, lower herself and stay in one of the measly hovels or the tenements filled to the brim with disease, scum, and crime? Would Meg have to turn back to prostitution?

Their lives were in his hands.

"Leave me, Teresa," he said softly. "I will be out momentarily."

She nodded, uncertain. "Yes, sir."

"Oh, and Teresa? One more question…"

She stopped her laborious process of standing from her seated position.

"Why was it that you were chosen?"

She thought for a moment, then said, "Because I wanted to help. And I was brave enough to try."

He smiled. "Very good, Teresa, thank you."

She got up, limping on her mangled limb, closing the door behind her.

He buried his face in his hands.

He could not just leave them to die, to suffer at his hands, however indirectly. Madame Giry had been as close to a family as anything he had ever had, for years.

Little Meg, so talented a dancer, so sweet a girl. Could he make her suffer more than she already had, because of him?

But how would Gustave react when he knew his mother's murderer and her mother resided in the very same park as he did?

Erik felt like growling. He raked his fingers through the hair of his wig, hissing in frustration.

In his head, strains of angry, violent music played. But suddenly, a sweeter sound replaced it, a sad plea in an angel's voice.

"_Try to forgive_

_Teach me to live_

_Give me the strength to try_…"

_Try to forgive_, he mused. He remembered those words, and remembered the day she'd spoken them. A crippling surge of pain shot through his chest, as it always did when he thought of her.

"Oh, God, Christine…" he moaned, suddenly weak.

"_Angel of Music_

_Who deserves this?_

_Why do you curse mercy_?"

He groaned, suddenly vulnerable. She was always with him.

And he knew what she would have wanted. He knew what she would have said, what she would have done.

"I can't… Christine, I can't, I'm not strong enough, I can't forgive…"

_Yes, you can_.

His eyes closed, he felt a cool hand at his brow, smoothing away the crease. He felt lips at his temple and he knew peace. But he struggled to remember, to focus.

"Gustave…"

_He will be alright, my love. He will forgive. He will learn. He is a smart boy. He will understand._

The lips moved to his cheek, kissing away the tears gently. The feeling was so unbearably sweet, and he could not hold in the shaking gasp that cut the silence like a knife.

_Trust me, love._

"Yes…"

Her lips moved to the corner of his mouth, kissing there.

With a moan, he reached out for her and opened his eyes. But she was gone, there was no one there.

Of course not.

He sighed, trying to gather himself. He hummed a bar of music to himself, and realized suddenly what it was he had to do with Madame Giry and her tormented daughter.

"Damn it all to hell," he swore, standing and going to the door.

**I'm always a little nervous about OC's. Particularly when they're prominent OC's. But I just really loved the idea of Phantasma being this safe haven for the outcasts, for all the people who weren't accepted, who were treated with grave injustice in the outside world to come and create beauty of their own, no matter how strange and dark it was. **

**Kind of like Tumblr.**

**Wow, way to ruin the moment...**

**Anyways.**

**And I just had this image in my mind, from pictures I've seen in muckraker books from the time period. And it's just so terrible, and Teresa got stuck in my head and would not leave. I really wanted to emphasize that EVERY social injustice and outcast person was welcome on Phantasma. And while Teresa is also deformed, she is also a victim of the racism that was so prevalent at the time.**

**And in Phantasma, she is safe. She is home.**

**I just thought that idea was sadly under-utilized in the musical. And that's okay. Because there was other stuff going on-y'know, in the MAIN PLOT of the musical... But hey, that's what fanfiction is for.**

**-Ophelia V. Santori**


End file.
